Malfoy
by Shadowed Mediocrity
Summary: In the year that Harry Potter returns to the wizarding world, a young boy is put into the house of Slytherin. What none of them know is that he is bound to change the definition of ‘Slytherin’ forever… [Draco-centric]


Malfoy

**Summary**: In the year that Harry Potter returns to the wizarding world, a young boy is put into the house of Slytherin. What none of them know is that he is bound to change the definition of 'Slytherin' forever… (Draco-centric)

**Disclaimer**: If I _owned_ Harry Potter, I wouldn't be sitting here writing fanfictions about it. And I'm certain I'd be loads richer.

**Author's Note**: All of the Draco fanfics I see have romance in them. This may, this may not. What I know for certain that this is about Draco, one of the lesser major characters in the HP series. And, of course, Slytherin; the one term is synchronous with the other.

Uncanonities and unmatching details are the fault of a rusty mind _sans_ beta. Please tell me of them as soon as you see them.

Also, since I know no better, I hath made November 1st, 1980, Draco's birthday. If canonites see that I've made a mistake, please let me know.

And now… on with the fic!

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Prologue

_October 31st, 1980_

Winds howl and whip at the cold pillars of the Malfoy Mansion, dashing themselves to pieces in an effort to be noticed. Their pieces are swept away by their brethren, trampled underfoot, glittering and cutting at whatever they might, but unnoticed for the most part. The storm has come, and may someday fragment gently into drifting wisps of gray. But for now it whirls and dances intricately, with a quickstep like a tango and a high, splendid darkness.

He turns his head, briefly illuminated by candlelight to reveal a profile smooth like sculpted ice, superhumanly beautiful, aristocratic. Assured in his chiseled perfection, it appears as though not crimson, but bloodless silver, runs through his veins, under the perfect control of a heart with a flawless tempo; and the faultless balance of light and darkness upon his features serves only to further imply that.

Bending, cast into shadow again, he lifts a tiny bundle of silk and linen into where the light can pierce through and expose the creature within. A casual flick and the sheer cover is discarded, spilling to the floor in a jumble of ivory cloth. And from between those deft, gentle hands there comes the thin beginning of a wail…

"Hush." The man murmurs, his voice glossed to a silver polish, but so hard that it might break infant bones with its strength. "Hush, Draco." A momentary pause, before the slight beginnings of a melody stream from between his lips, wafting and easily lost in the ancient rafters of the house.

"There will be deaths tonight…" He sings in a whisper-murmur. "Be grateful that yours does not number among them." And when he brings his son's infant countenance to the light again, his eyes gleam with cold resolution.

"You will live to see your second birthday, Draco. But the ones after that? They depend on what you do." Bowing faintly, a slight curve of the waist, he replaces the child in his cradle, bestowing a kiss as light and devoid of affection as the chance brush against a breeze.

"Do not displease me." He whispers, and strides with cold confidence from the room; a granite mold into which his still-young form will solidify…

Somewhere out in the world, there may be screams. But they are whipped away from earshot as the storm accrues…

_July 24th, 1991_

"Weak." Spat the blond man, and carelessly raked strands of fine white-gold from his eyes. "I've raised you and I've waited and I've thought that there might be something in you worth salvaging. And yet all you can do now is tell me these foolish anecdotes." Eyes smouldering with an aristocratic disdain as he studied the distinct Malfoy profile evidenced by the whitened face across from him, he said, "I've heard more interesting tales over a pair of cocktails."

A cupid's bow mouth drew tight. "Yes, Father." He whispered, and his fingers tightened about the pillow that was perched lightly on his lap, so tight that his hands were white with strain.

Raising his feet to sprawl carelessly across the velvet couch, he stared contemptuously at his first and only son. A strand of saffron so pale as to be alabaster curled over his eye, but he did not brush it away. "You came in here to tell me something important?" He inquired coldly, and hands that might have been an artist's, with their spiderine-quick fingers, gestured expressively, curtly. "Tell me, show me, whatever, then get out. I have business to attend to."

White-lipped, shoulders taut with tension and the words that went unsaid, Draco rose, flinging a crumpled missive into his father's hands before taking two quick strides and leaving through the arched marble doorway.

_Still so temperamental…_ He would have been disappointed if he had not seen evidence of this mistempering every day, this flaw that had ingrained itself deeper with every breath that he had taken. He had wondered, sometimes, if it was not through some fault of his own that the steel he had thought perfect was so deeply blemished. Draco was malicious, but not enough – quick-witted, but too slow and proud of his weak brand of wickedness to assume a mask of integrity. And he was odd; not the perfectly trained son that Lucius needed, but an adept wild card who played his life for the joy of it, serving no master but his father.

And a parental bond would not be enough to fetter him to the cause that they had most need to support.

Deft long fingers unwrinkled the paper, smoothing the crinkles from its edges, though it was a long moment before his eyes were focused enough to read it. His gaze drifted listlessly over the first few words, wholly at sea, but sharpening, coalescing into solid form as he read its contents.

And slowly, as his roundly-clipped nails dug into the multi-colored seal of an embossed "H" upon the back of the letter, he began to laugh, throwing his head back as though in genuine amusement. The paper fluttered to the ground, loosened and free, though he had no care to notice it. His laughter rang through all the house, resonating and sounding in unexpected corners, echoing with an unearthly quality.

In some subterranean part of the expansive kitchens, a house-elf nearly shut his fingers in the oven door in clumsy fright. But Lucius would not have cared if he saw it. His eyes were fixed upon a distant picture of a dancing blond child perched atop his office mantel. And though his laughter had faded, he was still smiling.

Perhaps there was still something worth salvaging in his son after all.

_July 31st, 1991 – _Present Day

"Father, will we be going to Knockturn Alley today?" He had moved swiftly to match his father's pace, and now stood slightly out of breath in the midst of the path, struggling to catch his breath. A tiny, pointy-faced boy with blond hair and sharp, wide gray eyes that cut the world with a petty, childish malice.

Lucius studied him with iron patience. "No, Draco."

"Well, if we aren't, there are new racing brooms in Diagon that"

"Shut up, Draco." The older man said crisply, and Draco bowed his head in acquiescence.

"Yes, Father."

The conversation was quite different from how it might have looked upon lifeless paper; the words themselves were little more than courtesy now, a pretense at a semblance of normality that had never been.

And now Lucius turned, moving with rapid, streamlined purpose down a stream of shops that were familiar to the younger Malfoy's eyes, but that he did not bother to identify, too occupied in attempting to stay by his father's right hand. But Lucius was a harsh taskmaster, and had always been.

_To spare is to soften, and you have softness enough already._

"Where are we going, Father?" He asked instead, petulantly, child's chin jutting out into a pointed sulkiness.

Faint amusement amassed in his father's inscrutable gray eyes as the blond man raised an eyebrow. "I should think that it would be obvious. You've received your letter from Hogwarts, haven't you?" At his son's quick, precise nod, he continued, "So we'll get you robes. Real silver clasps, I think; I'll have one of the house-elves dig out one of the old ones for you." A light, ingrained warning rested in his statement, unspoken, unnecessary. _Lose it and face serious pain_.

Draco drew in a breath suddenly, silver eyes struggling to conceal their shine. "Father…" He whispered.

Steeling himself, Lucius placed a hand upon the boy's shoulder, collecting his features into an expression of cold fatherliness. "You're a Malfoy." He said. "We have standards to uphold." Another hand drifted languidly by, suddenly snapping forth to hold the eleven-year-old's chin and force it into poise. Bending, his face so close that the two almost touched, he said in a cutting undertone, "Do I make myself clear?"

Quickly, as though fearing that he might be punished for such an act, his tongue flicked out and wetted his dry lips. "Y-yes, Father." Draco said, and did not move to step into the shop until Lucius had released him.

Pausing momentarily before proceeding upon his other tasks, he watched as his son stepped into Madam Malkin's; watched as that timid pose rose and strengthened into a look of absolute, Malfoyesque arrogance. He watched and saw only too well as the boy strode towards the serving witches, speaking words that flustered them and dashed them into pieces that were only too eager to serve him in whatever way they might.

Lucius Malfoy smiled, a fleeting arctic flash, before he walked on.

-

"Careful with that!" He snapped, as one of the flustered witches flying about him slid a pin home, and was pleased to see the nape of her neck flush crimson as she bent to her task. Ignoring their murmurs asking him to stand up a little straighter, tilt that pointed chin a little higher, he waited patiently for the conclusion of these trials. The children with whom his father had bid him play with in his childhood had probably finished this ordeal ages ago, the blond thought, a little boredly – and all together, too, chattering tediously. But even their chatter would be a welcome change from this dull environment of murmurs and humble whispers—

The bell rang, signifying the entrance of a new customer into the shop. Hearing Madam Malkin flutter to the front, simpering expertly, Draco allowed himself a thin, contemptuous smile, though his expression flashed briefly into a frown as the clumsy girl attending him slipped again. When he had finished upbraiding her, the boy that the fat witch had greeted was beside him.

With a swooping, scornful gaze, Draco glanced towards him and looked away again; he was accustomed by now to the useless, the poor, and this newcomer appeared to be both. His dark hair stuck up at the back of his head like irrepressibly weeds, survivors of the last lawn-mower's merciless genocide. And even if they had laid sleekly flat, there would have been an untidy look about him, something that had to do integrally with the skinny awkwardness of his body and the way that he held himself – halfway hunched over, with an ungraceful posture that further minimized him. But there was a resolution in that awkwardness; even Madam Malkin's murmured reprimands could not straighten his body.

_Common rat_, he thought instinctively, and turned away to let the tedious process of measuring be completed.

Something about his appearance ran warning bells within Draco's mind. But it would not be until he met with his father again that he would uncover why…

_To be continued?_

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**Author's Note:** It was an idea running around in my head, to flesh out Draco, because I like Draco. I like Fandom!Draco, but I also like Canon!Draco, and I wanted to see what I could do with him while keeping him entirely within the boundaries of canon.

…And yes, the fact that Lucius was singing children's lullabies was also something of a temptation for me to write this much.

So I suppose this is a teaser to test the waters of public opinion?

**Next Up: **His first conversation with the infamous Mister Potter. And I'll keep straight with the chapters from the books from there on.

**Feedback:** is adored. Criticism accepted (with a bad grace, because I am immature and childish but have sense enough to recognize both) so long as you back it up. Thank you.


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